


The Human Condition

by Sophia_Bee



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee





	The Human Condition

Logan

Logan watches her every day. It’s become habit, an involuntary movement of his muscle in her direction, so much that sometimes he doesn’t realize he’s been staring until her head turns and his eyes quickly flick down to look at his desk or the wall or the clouds outside.

The words are involuntary too, spilling from his mouth before he can stop them. They are sharp blades designed to hurt, inserted in the correct spot. Except they don’t seem to work anymore. They bounce off her wry smile, defeated by the sadness in her eyes. They used to feel good, to bring a small rush of satisfaction. Now they are empty, small in the context of what might have been. He says them anyway. Hurting her is the only way Logan has left to show her that he cares.

He feels better when he’s numb. When his stomach is heaving and the world is spinning and he can’t stop the fear that comes with the spilled bottle of tequila seeping into the carpet. He wonders if he’ll ever stop expecting Aaron’s cold voice to cut through him, ever stop waiting for the sting of the belt.

It’s when he wakes up crying that Logan realizes that he’s truly fucked up.

It’s not about his mother. He stopped crying for her a long time ago. Now he can only find anger and sometimes he yells at her even thought he knows she’s not there. He screams until his voice his gone, until he’s left sobbing on the carpet, asking her why she left him alone.

It’s not about Veronica. She’s not simple enough for tears. He’s all tangled up inside over her, hate and love and loss swirling together in a mixture that he stopped trying to unravel months ago. He’s learning to live with it, learning to accept the sharp stabs of pain that tighten in his chest every time he sees her, every time she smiles at Duncan. He’s learned to lie to himself that he hates her when he knows the truth lies in the opposite.

He’s truly fucked up because it’s about him. He sits in bed, jaw slack, chest heaving with sobs, gasping one word over and over.

Daddy.

*****

Cassidy

Sometimes he wonders what she would say if she knew that he sneaks into her bathroom when she’s gone. He carefully unzips the makeup bag and pulls out a black pencil. With a steady hand he draws a dark, thick black line under one lower lid, then under the other. Cassidy looks in the mirror and blinks. Once. Twice. Bits of makeup flake into the corner of his eyes and they start to water. He wipes at them with a forefinger, smudging the kohl. He licks his lips and smiles.

The house is quiet. Dick is at Logan’s house. Dad is out at some charity auction with Kendall. No one is around to watch Cassidy. He likes it this way. No one wonders where he’s going at midnight.

He parks his dad’s BMW on a street where no one turns on their porch light. Leaves crunch under his feet as he walks toward the main street. He feels his hands shaking in anticipation. Each step brings him closer.

The lights are bright on the main drag but there are always shadows. Awnings cast bits of darkness, alleyways provide refuge. He finds a pocket of darkness, a doorway to a liquor store. He leans against the doorjamb, sticks his hands into the pockets of his almost painfully tight jeans and waits. The cheap, thin polyester of his sheer, tight t-shirt is itching. The fall air is chilled and Cassidy fights back a shiver.

It’s quiet, only an occasional car speeding down the empty street. He can hear music in the distance, probably coming from the Seven Veils where scantily clad dancers are working hard to make the dreams of middle aged men come true, even if just for five minutes. Soon it happens. A car pulls up to the curb and the passenger side window rolls down. Cassidy looks to his left, then to his right. The sidewalk is deserted except for a homeless man sleeping in the doorway. He walks toward the car, his hips swinging with confidence, suggestively his head tilted to the side, an invitation. He walks toward slowly, wanting the person inside to wait for him, want him.

The car smells like cigarettes and greasy fast food and faintly of booze. Cassidy leans down and hangs his head in the window.

“How much?” the man in the drivers seat asks, his face in the shadows. Cassidy wonders if he has a family. Maybe even a son like him. Is his wife at home. Tucked safely in her warm bed, waiting for her husband to get home from his late night at the office. Will they have waffles in the morning and talk about the weather or the latest newspaper headlines? Will her husband ever casually mention that he likes to pick up men in downtown Neptune and fuck them in the back seat of their station wagon?

“Fifty.” Cassidy says, making his voice deep, trying not to let the pubescent squeak give him away, hoping the man doesn’t hear the quiver of fear that he never can seem to shake no matter how many times he does this.

“Get in.”

His fingers find the cold door handle. He slips into the cold leather seat and the car drives slowly down the street. Cassidy licks his lips and smiles.

*****

Duncan

He hears their whispers, the sighs of pity that follow him everywhere. Poor little rich boy. Lost his sister. Parents left him here. Lives in a hotel.

He dreams at night. He’s killed her, blood on his hands, in his hair, the metallic taste in his mouth. It’s usually Lilly, her lifeless eyes staring up at him, her face frozen in some sort of strange grimace. Sometimes it’s Veronica, except she’s not dead. She won’t die, just keeps asking him why he won’t let her go. Sometimes it’s Celeste. He screams and screams until he feels a touch on his shoulder. Her touch.

She’s always there, and when he feels her fingers burn through the fabric of his shirt, he knows everything will be okay. Except it never is because when he turns around she’s not there anymore. At least not the person he used to know. She hooked up to machines and pumps, the air is filled with beeps and whirs and strange sounds that grow louder and louder until he wakes up with her name on his lips.

Meg.

He’ll never tell Veronica. Maybe she would have understood a long time ago, before everything happened. Maybe he would have been able to tell her before Lilly and Logan, before he became the poor little rich boy, before his parents abandoned him. He can’t tell her, can’t find the words. Part of him knows if he tells her, he’ll lose her.

The pills help. Little blue pills in a funny football shape that he gulps down as he stands, shaking, in front of the mirror. He’ll never tell Veronica about those either. The pills are his own secret and he doesn’t want to share them.

He plays happy. He smiles and banters with Veronica in the hallway. He wraps he arm around her shoulder and kisser her hair. He raises his hand in class and hands his homework in on time. He tells the counselor during their monthly sessions that everything is okay, that it’s never been better. He does everything to prove that if Duncan Kane is anything, he’s resilient.

He lies.

One day the whispers will become too much. Duncan knows this. He knows it’s only a matter of time before the carefully balanced world he’s built around him comes tumbling down. He’ll snap and they’ll all say they saw it coming. He’ll feel blood on his hands again, feel how it’s warm and sticky, sinking into every crack and crevice of his skin, staining his soul. How much can one person be expected to handle anyway? Poor little rich boy.


End file.
